VOLATILE (G)
Title: Volatile
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen. Background Molly/Arthur
Word Count: 300
Rating: G
Warnings: Grumpy!Molly.
Summary: These days, everyone's walking on eggshells at the Burrow.
A/N: This one's for you, matildabishop
Molly had been searching all morning for something. If only she could remember what it was.
She’d put the dishes away in the wrong cupboard by mistake, put salt in poor Ron’s morning cup of tea instead of sugar, and when she turned on the oven to heat it up, in preparation for baking bread, she’d been greeted by the obnoxious smell of burnt rubber and scorched wool. Her lovely slippers, which of course were what had been missing, had been in there, for some reason, and they were ruined. She sat down at the table and sobbed.
She ate her way very deliberately through a tin of biscuits before noon, and shouted at Ron (it really wasn’t his day, either) for lighting a fire in the lounge room grate that evening.
“It’s a hundred degrees in here!” she shrieked, her voice harsh and shrill.
Ron jumped guiltily, and disappeared, mumbling something about putting on another jumper instead. Molly fanned herself with her copy of Witch Weekly. Who had ever heard of a November so warm? She was burning to a crisp from the inside out, she was sure of it.
That night in bed, she tossed and turned, up and down for cups of tea at eleven, two, and five. At six, a rather bleary-eyed Arthur approached her in the kitchen with the highly cautious air of someone nearing a bad-tempered dragon.
“Ah, Molly, my love,” he began, “I can’t help but notice… recognise… er… behaviour…” The rest trailed into mumbles, of which she only caught one word, and it was enough to make her burst into the first genuine peals of laughter in nearly a week.
Wiping away tears, she bundled her confused and rather frightened husband into a hug. “I’m not pregnant, love. It’s just the change.”
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen. Background Molly/Arthur
Word Count: 300
Rating: G
Warnings: Grumpy!Molly.
Summary: These days, everyone's walking on eggshells at the Burrow.
A/N: This one's for you, matildabishop
Molly had been searching all morning for something. If only she could remember what it was.
She’d put the dishes away in the wrong cupboard by mistake, put salt in poor Ron’s morning cup of tea instead of sugar, and when she turned on the oven to heat it up, in preparation for baking bread, she’d been greeted by the obnoxious smell of burnt rubber and scorched wool. Her lovely slippers, which of course were what had been missing, had been in there, for some reason, and they were ruined. She sat down at the table and sobbed.
She ate her way very deliberately through a tin of biscuits before noon, and shouted at Ron (it really wasn’t his day, either) for lighting a fire in the lounge room grate that evening.
“It’s a hundred degrees in here!” she shrieked, her voice harsh and shrill.
Ron jumped guiltily, and disappeared, mumbling something about putting on another jumper instead. Molly fanned herself with her copy of Witch Weekly. Who had ever heard of a November so warm? She was burning to a crisp from the inside out, she was sure of it.
That night in bed, she tossed and turned, up and down for cups of tea at eleven, two, and five. At six, a rather bleary-eyed Arthur approached her in the kitchen with the highly cautious air of someone nearing a bad-tempered dragon.
“Ah, Molly, my love,” he began, “I can’t help but notice… recognise… er… behaviour…” The rest trailed into mumbles, of which she only caught one word, and it was enough to make her burst into the first genuine peals of laughter in nearly a week.
Wiping away tears, she bundled her confused and rather frightened husband into a hug. “I’m not pregnant, love. It’s just the change.”